


then he struck my heart with a deadly force

by valenstyne



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Hellsing
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Blood Drinking, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, POV Second Person, arguably fluffier than it sounds, not Stockholm Syndrome just Mr. D being hella subby, your Van Helsing has a flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valenstyne/pseuds/valenstyne
Summary: The hand that feeds.





	then he struck my heart with a deadly force

**Author's Note:**

> …I don't know, okay. Let's call this an attempt to bridge some of the gap between the novel _Dracula_ and Hellsing canon, or an attempt to establish my personal versions of the characters, or maybe I just wanted to write some melodramatic homoerotic blood-related shenanigans for ~~Vladentine's~~ Valentine's Day, whatever. Also, it's entirely possible this fic only makes sense if you regularly spend way too much time thinking about the historical Dracula, like I do. Oh well. Also-also, Van Helsing is the best character in the novel, there I said it. (And he thinks Dracula is _really cool_. It's canon!) 
> 
> FWIW, in my head "long enough to lose track of time" is like…maybe a week tops. Dracula is just a giant drama queen (which is also canon).

When Abraham Van Helsing captured you and brought you back to England to jail beneath his manor, you assumed he did so because he wanted revenge. You were prepared to be starved, beaten, subjected to any number of torments meant to strip you of whatever pride you might have left, and you were prepared to withstand such efforts until either escape became possible, or he had no choice but to put an end to you forever. This would not, after all, be your first time as a prisoner in a strange land, at the mercy of men who wished to destroy you. 

But this time is different. This man treats you not with contempt, but with care. Evidently satisfied by the ruin you have already suffered, he makes no attempt to break you further. He seems to find you deserving of some respect. You are confused.

The first night that he brings you up from the dungeon into his study, you have no idea what to expect. You have been in your cell long enough to lose track of time, secured by the sigils drawn on the walls and door that prevent you from leaving without permission, and you can think of no reason for this man to do anything so dangerous as allowing you a taste of freedom, though he has at least chained your hands. Not that his study is unprotected, even if you should slip your bonds; a crucifix stands in the middle of his immense oaken desk, an array of weapons cased within easy reach on the wall behind. For a moment you wonder if he means to kill you.

To your surprise, however, he wants to talk. He asks you first about your abilities and then about your history, and when you refuse to answer certain of his questions he simply nods and makes notes in his journal. When early-morning sunlight begins to filter through the curtained windows, he returns you to your coffin with a promise that he will speak with you again soon. 

He keeps his promise the next night, and the night after, and the night after that. You have many stories, and Van Helsing appears eager to hear them all. With such a receptive audience, you enjoy telling them. Occasionally you attempt to shock him with tales of atrocity, terrible things you have done or been accused of doing—you cannot always remember, after four centuries, which are true and which are carefully-crafted legends—but to your disappointment he refuses to be horrified, regarding you with amused curiosity in lieu of fear. You begin to think he is growing fond of you. 

One night, several months or perhaps a year into this new existence, he gestures for you to sit as usual, then produces two pairs of manacles and shackles your wrists to each arm of the chair. A curious thing, as he has lately been allowing you to attend these interviews unfettered, but you let him fasten the restraints without protest. He smiles, pleased by your compliance, and you feel oddly gratified.

When he has you secured, he unwraps a cloth-covered bundle on his desk, spilling forth a gleaming assortment of blades. You watch him study them carefully before he selects a scalpel, bright and sharp, and turns back to you. His face is unreadable. Perhaps he expects you to question him, demand to know his intentions. Instead you remain silent and wait. He has never hurt you unnecessarily, but if he has chosen to do so now you will not resist. The scalpel can do you no permanent damage, and pain is fleeting.

Van Helsing weighs the knife in his hand and asks abruptly, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” Although you have been fed regularly, the raw meat he gives you is far from satisfying. You are always hungry.

He nods thoughtfully, then lifts the blade to his other hand and slices a single red line across the tip of his thumb. The scent of blood—fresh blood, _human_ blood—fills the air, sudden and overpowering, wrenching a moan from your throat as a shudder of desire racks your body. The chains rattle before you realize you are pulling on them, mindlessly straining forward as you watch the blood well up and drip from his finger. This must be a test, you think, a test of your control, and you clench your fists and force yourself to be still, drag your unsteady gaze away from his bleeding hand and meet his eyes. If he wants you to prove you are not a beast, you will. The hunger is a vicious ache inside you but you will not yield, you will not be reduced to a frantic slavering creature of unquenchable cravings, you _will not_ give him reason to abandon you as irredeemably monstrous after all. You will starve first.

For a long, agonizing moment, he does nothing but look at you. Then he puts his hand to your face, cups your cheek and presses his bloody thumb against your lips. You lock your jaw, trembling with the effort of keeping your mouth closed, pleading mutely for lenience. This is not a test, this is torture, and you cannot endure it much longer.

“Drink,” he says softly. “Drink, vampire.”

Helpless, you gasp your surrender and he thrusts his thumb into your mouth. His blood is thick and rich, scalding hot on your tongue as you lap desperately at the cut. He tastes of iron and and copper and salt, of strength and health despite his age, of spirit and knowledge and _life_. You are burning from within, raw power surging anew through your veins, scarlet billows spreading behind your eyes, the once-dying embers of all your ancient magic reignited with each swallow of blood not taken but given freely. For the first time in many months, the bitter chill that settled under your skin when you knew you had lost everything to those men—to this man—is gone. 

“Be careful!” His voice is light, unconcerned. “Mind not to bite down.”

You could. You could sink your fangs through his flesh all the way to the bone and then through that. You could break free of your chains and fall upon him, feed until there is nothing left of this extraordinary man who knows what you are and what you have done and is still brave or foolish or insane enough to touch you. 

You could. 

You do not.

Van Helsing lets you suck until the flow of blood wanes to a trickle, finally saying gently, “Enough for now, I have not so much blood in me to spare,” as he withdraws and leaves you panting. After a brief examination of his wound, he wraps his hand carelessly in his handkerchief and directs his attention back to you. “Are you now less hungry? I am not the pretty girls you prefer, but I think even the blood of an old man will do in your time of need, will it not?”

You nod, unable to find the words for an answer. Your mouth is still filled with the taste of him, your body throbbing with his heat. You understand now that he has done with kindness what so many others failed to do with cruelty: he has won your submission. There is a chain being forged around your heart, and it is much, much stronger than the ones around your wrists. 

He has become part of you, but you have been the one consumed.


End file.
